Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic and characters… do you?
A lukewarm coke
The sun was only just beginning to rise, giving off that strange, pale pre-glow of dawn. The air was still chill and heavy with the fresh dew, which hung like glistening diamonds in cobwebs and on the grass growing through the cragged asphalt. It was the silent hour: the night, with its partiers and freaks had desisted, but the day with its workers and neurotics had not yet taken over. The train station was deserted. Good. The small figure stifled a yawn and walked to the far end of the platform – not because there was really any reason to go there, but the movement helped. It kept him awake. It had been a long night. He would like to have been able to say that he had been roaming the streets in the service of some or other dastardly plot, but he wasn't really up for the lie just now. Staying focused was hard enough – he didn't even want to think about what kind of trouble he could get himself into trying to keep track of a story. Not when reality itself was giving him a headache…
Suddenly something metallic hit his foot, making him dive behind the nearest bench – an ambush? Snipers? Assassins? … Oh… An old can…
He almost laughed at himself (but then remembered that he was not the kind of person anyone laughed at - not even himself!) and walked over to the small, rusting piece of trash, trying to read its label while maintaining his looking-cool-image. And failed miserably. It is absolutely impossible to look amazingly cool and collected while stooping over a small object on the ground at five o'clock in the morning, while plagued by visions of last night's drinks and yester-eves supper. Luckily, as the sun began to rise, a headache hit him square in the face with malice of forethought.
- Arhhh…
He cursed under his breath as the world broke into pieces of shattered glass before his eyes. What had those damn kids made him drink? Not that anyone could control his actions, never! However, one or two points about last night still seemed to float off-reach, like small boats made from paper on a huge, calm sea. Now and again, looking hard at the reflection, he almost thought he caught a word or two, and then, was sorry that he had. That thing about dancing on the table had to apply to someone else… Sonic or perhaps Knuckles… The ultimate creation didn't dance on tables! Perhaps these particular boats were best left to float about and, hopefully, sink…
He didn't know what irked him the most – that he had ever agreed to go to their party, that he had had fun ("No I didn't!") or that he would have to go back at some point to collect his coat. Again, he wished he could somehow deceive his own memory, but the treacherous thing immediately prompted that he hadn't forgotten it at all – he had left it there on purpose.
But she had been lying on the floor. Shivering. And she had been sick. And next time they had to steal anything together, he told himself, I will ask her for some fitting compensation – 75, perhaps… He knew he wouldn't, but it made him feel better none the less.
The headache subsided slightly and the can drifted back into his field of vision. Though the wretched thing had probably been lying there for well over a month, he could still make out the faded red colouring and enough of the white letters to know what he was looking at. A coke. Sugar and artificial dye. Great; just what he needed! If that couldn't turn him into his own grumpy self again, nothing would (he had already tried thinking long and hard about Maria and the tragedies he had witnessed so far, but his mind just went into overload-mode and denied him access to anything more complicated than La Cucaracha). Sugar to kick his synapses back into place and artificial dye to restore his general loathing. There just had to be a vending-machine somewhere around there…
He scurried from one end of the platform to the other and back again, shading his eyes with his hand against non-existent sunlight. Nothing. No. There was no way the universe could be so cruel! He had survived the ARK, he had survived Maria, he had even survived outer space, but THIS… He threw a quick glance at the railroad tracks – nah, why bother. If nothing else had killed him so far, a simple train wasn't going to succeed… But really; who could dream of building a platform without- something caught his eye. Something shiny – sunlight reflected off a smooth surface. A plastic surface. The surface of… He ran to the machine like a knight to the grail, the rush of speed sending a rustle through the sparse grass, shaking the dew off the straws – finally! My life makes sense! I now hold in my mortal hand… A coke!
For a moment he just stood there, watching the metal gleam in his hand, almost unable to believe that the universe wasn't going to screw this up for him. With a slight thrill of guilt he realized that this meant that he had been comparatively happy for almost… six hours ("Sorry Maria… "). That was a new record! He allowed himself a tiny smile as he opened the can, looking at the scenery with a strange sense of peace. The sun had climbed high enough to cover the tree-tops in a golden haze – a couple of magpies were moving about up there, sending changing patterns of shade and light down across his face. The tiny pebbles next to the railroad tracks began to shudder, barely visibly. The wires above hummed to themselves. A trove of activity seen by none. No-one but the ultimate creation (with the ultimate senses) could have noticed.
The train would be arriving soon, he would go home, sleep for a few days, claiming to anyone who later asked that he had been caught in the cross-fire of a rebellion, or something. And with that, the moment would pass. It would slip away, and he would let it. He had more important things to do than collect moments of tranquillity. Yet, right now, he could live it.
The coke was lukewarm. It didn't really matter.